


at the mercy of a dream

by katsubi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Paprika (2006)
Genre: Connor Deserves Happiness, Crapsack world yo, Crossover, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Double Life, Mindscrew, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paprika AU, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, There is the dc mini problem but there are also protesting androids, There really is no effective way to translate dream logic to words but I'll try my best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-07-26 01:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16209389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsubi/pseuds/katsubi
Summary: Between his sessions and investigations with Connor, Hank slowly picks up on the tensions between androids and humans. The secretiveness Connor displays at times. The similarities between his (illegal) therapist and the android detective he's partnered with. Still, there is an undercurrent of uneasiness far different from the deviant cases they handle. Something catastrophic is hovering over the horizon, something otherworldly.Something which is only seen in a dream





	1. conception

**Author's Note:**

> An idea one of my dreams spit at me. I would have disregarded this weirdass concept but the plot actually made sense in my sleep so here I am
> 
> My original intent was to post the sketches I made for this on the DBH amino and yeet away but I was requested to write a fanfic and now I'm writing this
> 
> uhhhhm yeah
> 
> This will update sporadically, maybe not at all, I don't know, I'm sorry I am not much of a writer at all :'D
> 
> Original post: http://aminoapps.com/p/dneisg

"Hey! Lucas!"

Lucas started, the tweezers and other paraphernalia in his hand clattering as he attempted to steady his rattled nerves. Giving up, he brushed away the odds and ends, failures of the past hour and deposited the headset like apparatus on his cluttered workbench as he swung around in his chair to acknowledge his colleague. Harold grinned at his annoyed expression.

"What's with the pissed off look, man? I just came to check up on you, y'know?"

Lucas waved away his concerns. He had played this game long enough to see through Harold's act. He sighed, "What do you want now Har? Out with it I've been working on this fucker for the past hour now and I'd really-"

"...Yeah so, uh." He looked particuarly interested by Lucas' ratty shoes, if they could be called that. "..can you lend me one of the DC Minis?"

"What?"

If Harold could look even more out of place, he did. 

"No no no it's not in the way you _think_! I'm only gonna take it for a bit, y'know? Swing it by the robotics section for a bit. The dudes over there are really impressed by the intricate circuitry, incredibly detailed indeed they say, and I had thought of a great-"

"Listen Har."

"So is that a yes?"

" _NO_ , Harold. I am not going to allow you to manhandle one of my DC Minis just like that. Do you even know how hard it is to parse what Kamski had scrawled on those damned blueprints?! I had barely come up with a working model before the higher ups demanded twenty more! I'm on my thirteen cup of coffee, black with no sugar, and I! like! sugar! So no! If you really want to impress those poor fucks over at the robotics department you're free to show them Kamski's blueprints, with proper clearance from the HOD of course."

Fuck, he's going to pass out with the intensity of this headache. Harold was a good egg, just incredibly annoying and intrusive, even more so these days now that Lucas had climbed up the ladder with the invention of a working model of the DC Mini.

Ah yes, this device supposedly ' _allows psychotherapists to actually enter the dreamworld of their patients._ ' or so was written hastily on the side of Elijah Kamski's notes which were seized post his exit from Cyberlife. It had taken Lucas and his team, plus most of the robotics division the better half of two years to decipher the workings of the DC Mini (the DC itself took only about six months to decipher and now it stood proudly in the bowels of the research department, being deemed functional enough for commercialisation). Lucas fancies he single handedly caused the undue delay in the production of Cyberlife's latest detective android, a prototype RK800 which was to handle the latest cases of malfunctions in androids, something about them emulating human emotions. What a joke.

Shit, he had wandered off into daydreaming territory. Willing himself into the present world, he barely caught the tail end of Harold's response to his tirade.

"...alright? They really need a distraction or one of them's gonna blow a fuse, literally."

"Sometimes it feels like you care more about your former colleagues than your current ones." Harold grinned.

"What can I say? I really did like the engineering of androids back in the day, but your project felt more relevant, so I hopped onto the bandwagon."

Lucas swiveled back to face his workbench and took the time to make at least some space in a semblance of cleanliness. The stained ceramic reflected his saggy, acne ridden face. _Great_. "Say, what are they losing their minds over anyway?"

"Oh yeah, you know the RK800 they are working on? The prototype that is gonna hunt rogue androids down? The current model bricked itself and they're down to one. Sad really, seeing all that effort go down the drain." Lucas didn't need to turn around to know that Har was grimacing. He hated wasted effort.

"Mhm, isn't that their 50th attempt or something? I lost track after the 16th one tossed itself through the window."

"Well it was their 7th attempt at a complete RK800, the rest were never really completed due to the time crunch and the DC craze that swept the company." Lucas allowed himself a smirk. Damn right it was a craze, and he had singularly caused it.

"Eh, I can't really blame them. They based their new toy off Kamski's blueprints, right? Asshole should've gotten some lessons in handwriting, or he could have invested in, oh I don't know, a printer? Maybe even a sentient one to match with his bullshit ideals. But no, he had to be a pain in our asses even in his absence!"

Harold nodded pensively. It wasn't a secret that Elijah Kamski wasn't really well liked among Cyberlife's employees. "They did make a perfect copy this time though, down to the tear ducts, and yeah they said something to that effect too-" Lucas wheezed out an incredulous laugh.

"Seriously? _Tear ducts_? Why does a police Android need tear ducts? To cry itself out of a hostage situation?"

"The general consensus was to remove these unwanted features, but the last few attempts were utter failures, so now they're scared of purging these, eerily human, details. It seems that Kamski had sneaked in some crucial code strings assigned in the root directory to these frivolous details in the absence of which the unit suffers a-"

"Total system failure. Yep, that's definitely something Kamski would do." Lucas groaned as he picked up the unfinished device and held it up against artificial light, admiring his work. Harold should take this as a cue to leave- ah there.

"'Kay dude, sorry for holding you up like that, I'll be off with the blueprints then!"

"Wait wait! Not those! Those are mine! Kamski's are over there." They were _very_ crucial for his task on hand. It's a shame that he couldn't do anything without those blueprints, but what could he do? The workings are so intricate that even a millimetre's shift in position would render the thing unusable.

"Right. Yeah, sorry. See you later, I guess!" Now that Harold was out of his hair, he could finally turn to the task on hand. Lucas grimaced as he let his eyes fall to the stack of notes Harold had nearly made off with. Intricate indeed...

* * *

Chloe blinked.

"...and that was the end of that interaction Elijah." Orange light flooded the room as the transmission faded away.

"Thank you, Chloe." The man looked contemplative as he turned his back to Chloe facing the wall sized windows.

"You look troubled, would you like me to do something about the situation?"

"Your response time is as impeccable as always. I actually do need your assistance in this interesting case." Elijah smoothly responded, making his way out of the room.

Chloe smiled. "Yes, Elijah. What do you desire of me?"

Elijah looked over his shoulder, gaze intense.

"Tonight, I'd like you to hack the RK800. Meet me in the lab for further instructions."


	2. partial rejection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank meets people, makes questionable decisions, all while getting drunk as usual.
> 
> There are flying fish.

"Anderson! In my office now!"  
  
Hank groaned as Jeffrey's booming voice reverberated in his head. He was already nursing an agonising hangover, an ache he was familiar with among others. Of course one would be familiar with a hangover if one was a pathetic drunk like him who couldn't even drive on - "Anderson! If you don't get your ass in here right _now_  I _swear_ you'll be out of this fucking department before you could say 'fuckshit'!"  
  
Hank stormed into the office, slamming the door closed with a confidence only those who were classmates, hell friends, with Jeffrey could display. And he fit the credentials. It was probably the only reason he was even around, novel sized disciplinary file against him  notwithstanding. Jeffrey flashed a glare at him that melted into a unique cocktail of irritated concern.  
  
Oh. It's that kind of meeting.  
  
"Nah, not interested."    
  
"I didn't fucking say anything yet!"  
  
"Whatever yer gonna say, I am just going to ignore the fuck outta it so shut it and let me go." Hank barely reined in his anger, indignation at being babied for lamenting what was his own fault. It was his punishment, and he wanted to be left alone.  
  
"Well, so am I because I am going to ignore everything you shat out of your mouth and I'm going to force you to attend at least  _one_ fucking appointment with a therapist!"   
  
"What makes you think I will fucking do that, huh?"  
  
Jeffrey slammed his hand on his desk, rattling its occupants. His nostrils flared.  
  
"Listen, you need to move the fuck on Anderson. You need help no matter how far you're up your ass with this 'leave me alone' bullshit! God knows how many times I've gotten you appointments to police psychiatrists and you just fucking ditch  them-"  
  
"I don't want to talk about  _jackshit_!"  
  
Fowler's voice had climbed up in volume during his tirade and Hank had to yell over his ranting. He didn't need to glance through the transparent walls to know that his colleagues were staring at the  impromptu shouting match going on. He should have just called the day off.  
  
"I don't give a single fuck about what you think! You're getting yourself an appointment with a therapist today or you'll be handing in your badge tomorrow, no ifs or buts. You're dismissed." Fowler waved him away, body stiff even as he sagged in exhaustion, as if he was concerned for Hank. If he truly knew what was best for him, he'd leave him the fuck alone. One less wretch to burden the world with.  
  
"Fucking helpful my ass..." Hank hissed under his breath as he charged out of the building, not bothering to switch off his terminal. Fuck this, fuck everything, he thought even as he clambered into his rust bucket of a car and slammed the door shut. He's going to get drunk at Jimmy's like he always does. That's the only thing he was good at anyway.

* * *

  
"...and then, like the asshole made off with the super-Weed, y'know, parkouring like spiderman only to find himself face to face with an off duty police officer! Fuckin' glad it wasn't me though, y'know cause I would be stuck in with the police and I'd be back in the system and shit, heh heh." Hank, even in his drunk stupor appreciated the sheer irony of the situation, this poor bastard was talking to the Lieutenant of the DPD.  
  
...Not that it mattered much these days anymore. But still, the thought counts.  
  
The patron next to him, a seedy fellow Hank had seen at Jimmy's only thrice before glanced in his direction, then went back to nursing his drink. Eh, weird, but he didn't care.

"Yeah, cool whatever."  
  
Hank didn't realise he had blurted out his frustrations about being forced to get therapy until his memory of doing so caught up to him, and he regretted it, but Jimmy nodded easily as always. He was used to being the earpiece for the frustrations vented by his patrons, usually criminals or unemployed bums who all hated androids for good reason. He'd be one of them by tomorrow, well, not really. Jeffrey wouldn't do that to him in any case, but it seemed like he was barely tolerating Hank these days, like everyone else in his life now.  
  
Somehow that was a sobering thought.  
  
"...I might know someone who could help you with that." The suspicious looking person slowly enunciated, as if each word was carefully chosen. If Hank was sober, his sharpened senses and instincts would have detected that something was definitely off about this, but alcohol was the Devil's beverage and thus Hank was unable to discern his motives. Whatever.  
  
"Ha, so would they simply send me off with a card saying 'I had an appointment with this sad fuck and he's hopeless so don't bother' 'cause if they don't then I ain't interested." The man looked distinctly uncomfortable. Good.  
  
"Well...no, but word is on the street that his appointments do not involve much talking at all, but he is really good at his job. He might even let you off with a medical certificate declaring that you attended if that is what you want." Alright, now he had Hank's attention.  
  
"What's the catch?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"If this therapist you talk about is so good at keeping his shit together, why aren't there more people who are in the know?" Hank sat up, his hair was getting in his vision way too often for him to make proper eye contact with the man.  
  
The man shifted in his chair, choosing to scrutinise his glass, as if in deep thought. "I...am not sure myself, but it seems to involve some legal loophole that the man is not intent on letting the world know. All I do know is that he prescribes no drugs and doesn't ask for heart to heart conversation in his sessions. Hell, I have nothing but a vague pointer to his location myself."    
  
Huh. Secretive, possibly illegal. Might as well check it out then. If he does end up busting another drug ring then...that would get him in Fowler's good graces for a bit, enough for him to stop pestering him about solving his own problems. With that set in mind, Hank got up, steadying himself as the world swirled with the haze of inebriation. The man got up too, following Hank out of the bar.    
  
"Three blocks north from here there should be an alley facing the wall with the mural of a fish with wings. The man should be nearby around 6-10 pm everyday. I don't know if there are any passcodes, but I heard that he likes surprises. Good luck." The informant urgently whispered in Hank's ear, wiping his hands on his ratty jacket and walking away as if that interaction never happened. Hank stared at his retreating back for a while.  
  
Unbeknownst to Hank, the man turned a corner and pulled out his phone. The caller id flashed on the screen.  
  
"You heard that right? I did what you wanted, now hand over the cash." He hissed at the phone, hands rattling with the throes of drug withdrawal.  
  
The voice on the other side let out a deep, masculine chuckle.   
  
" _Eager aren't you? Good job handling that, kid, your reward is waiting for you in your account_."

* * *

  
  
The last vestiges of the sun peeked through the gaps between the run down buildings of the locality. It's almost 6:30 pm, surely. Hank got into his car, then paused. Would it be prudent to take his vehicle there? Would he be refused access, perhaps? He decided to opt against taking his car. Jimmy would safeguard it for him.  
  
Walking to his destination gave Hank the time to adjust to what exactly he was seeking out. There was a chance that this was a legitimate service, just a bit more run down and possibly illicit. There was also the chance that this was a gateway to a crime ring, a case he could bust open or die trying.    
  
In any case, he had reached the destination. He could see the orange sunlight illuminating the mural, a tastefully colored rendering of a colourful fish with angel-like wings, and the darkened alley directly opposite to it. What had the man said? That he would have to stand in the alley and wait for the quack? That was-  
  
Hello! Are you here for what I think you're here for?"    
  
A voice chirped from behind him. Hank turned around, poised in an attacking position, then he took in what he saw.  
  
"I am the psychotherapist sent by, well myself. It's nice to meet you, Lieutenant!"    
  
The young man in front of him, no more than twenty-five, surely, brushed his wavy silver-blonde hair away from his eyes as he smiled pleasantly at Hank. It had been a long time, too long since someone sent a smile like that in his direction- wait.  
  
"How did you know my rank?"    
  
"Oh!" He paused "I recognised your features from the news articles about your work in the Red Ice Task Force! That and some guesswork." Jesus, criminals getting into his records and shit...  
  
"I'm not a criminal if that is what you're thinking about, Lieutenant-"  
  
"Hank, call me Hank."   
  
"...Hank, it's merely the nature of my work that has caused me to take precautions." He raised a silver eyebrow.  
  
"And that is?"  
  
"Forgive me, but I don't reveal any details until you have decided that I'm trustworthy and that you are willing to keep this method of treatment away from public notice." The man replied easily, smile not once disappearing from his face. That's certainly not unsettling- is he an _android_? No one is this passive in the face of danger. That soured Hank's mood immediately.  
  
"What's with the secrecy bullshit anyway? You kicked yourself in the  fuckin' mouth by admitting you had a secret to hide in the first place, to a member of the DPD. What makes you think that I won't just go and arrest your ass right here?" The man stepped back, still smiling, if slightly less than before.  
  
"Because I know that you'll return, not to detain me, but to seek my help. You'll return, and I'll be waiting-"  
  
"Oh fuck you." Hank growled, grabbing the infuriating man _t_ _hing_ by the collar of his _its?_ dress shirt. Why did his words get on his nerves so much? "I am not your fuckingap for you to coo at and  comfort- I am. Not. Your. Plaything." He shook the  _thing_  in his grip with each punctuation, then he let it down as comprehension settled into his addled brain. Hank walked back, not bothering to check for the quack. God he needed a stiff drink. Fuck that creepy android dude. Fuck that shady man who wasted his tine with this bullshit. Fuck Fowler for forcing him to seek a therapist. He should never had left Jimmy's bar.  
  
When he returned, the patrons looked up in mild interest, looked at Hank's angered expression, his messier than usual hair and the cloud of negative emotions that surrounded him, and then returned to their own little worlds. This was customary for the place and Hank was glad for it. None of the diplomacy shit. Everyone here has their dirty tale to tell and enough hate to hurl at androids till the end of the century. This is therapy enough for Hank.  
  
_But is it really?  
  
"_ What?"   
  
Jimmy glanced up in mild confusion at Hank's detached question. Hank was sure he had heard that man's _thing's god this pronoun game is so annoying_ voice, maybe it was the drink talking. What a pain in the  
  
_I know you will return._  
  
...ass. He could even see those stupid puppy dog eyes imploring him to return to that dark alley. He mentally gave him a mental middle finger, and grinned when the winged fish fluttering behind the man visibly wilted.  
  
Jimmy was looking at him very strangely now.  
  
"Hey, uh...you alright there?" Hank groaned out an affirmative response as he settled in his chair. Jimmy slid a glass of the usual towards Hank and nodded. On the house it is. Hank muttered a thanks and lifted the glass.  
  
_I'll be waiting  
  
_ Hank slammed the glass down. "I'll be going now, thanks Jim." He said over his shoulder as he stomped out of the bar for the second time this evening. Fuck this, he can't do it. He can't ignore the  man- android   _but he had no LED on his forehead_ who managed to worm his way into his conscience. If it just so happens that something wrong happens tonight, he wouldn't need to waste the last bullet in his revolver on himself. Sumo would get a better owner, whatever. Seriously whatever. He couldn't  give a damn.  
  
"Oy! You fuckin' win, ya bastard! Where the fuck are you hiding at?!" Hank hollered into the musty air of the intersection. There was no sun to illuminate the place now, so all he felt like he was doing was yelling into the void. The man was not here, of course he wouldn't be waiting for Hank, he's so  _stupid_ -  
  
"I see you have returned!"  
  
Well then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will begin to make sense later on, or that's what I hope. English is not my first language and I am quite honestly a poor writer, so apologies for any errors/discrepancies!


	3. interception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, all it took was a young thing spending time with him and here he was being an old, washed up pervert. 
> 
> Pathetic.

He was...at a park. The park Hank used to take Cole to, one of the few places which were untouched by the android _plasticprick_  craze that swept the nation, by Cyberlife. The metal bars of the  _prisonjailholdingcellwhereyoubelong_  jungle gym glistened almost threateningly under the scorching sun. Where was he?   
  
Right, Hank was inside the jungle gym, dodging the accusatory, predatory hands of the angry _indignantdisgusted_  parents and children who all bore the face of a woman Hank knew all too well. His ex wife.  
  
_and?  
_  
and then _nnn_  
  
_His_  hand shot down, grabbing onto Hank's upturned coat collar as he hefted him up and out of the holding cell into the jungle filled with pigeons,   
so many pigeons  
  
...why the fuck were there so  _many pigeons_?!  
  
"The weather report for the day: an influx of pigeons are expected in the Amazonian rainforest, as reported by the Pandas of the Middle East." An automated voice bellowed in a tinny female _automatedfake_ voice, startling  _Tarza_ Hank and causing  his hands to slip from the vines he was swinging on, and he fell into the wall,

sinking

towards the bottom of the ocean and he could only make out a flutter of silver fins before he was hoisted up towards the surface, legs grazing the water as the merman beneath him sped along the traffic infested waters with trucks and cars, chasing two figures one small one c h i l d on the other side and all Hank could yell was "Wait! Don't follow them!" before his head sank below the surface and he closed his eyes and-  
  
_and then what?_  
  
And he was in a strip club, in hell, the headless bouncer whispered. The rats beneath his feet moved in unison, carrying him to the centre stage where the dancer winked with his puppy dog eyes, twirled his silver blonde curls and pulled out the stripper pole, fending off the overly enthusiastic   
pigs  
all while pulling Hank up on stage and kissing him on the cheek before announcing him as the "star of tonight's feast" but the stage collapsed pulling Hank down as he fell down the chute onto the roof of an tremendously tall tower just in time for the detectives to note the escape of the four bald Pinocchios who yelled "we're Alive Geppetto" and rode away on flying fish and Hank could only watch in disgusted horror as he stumbles into a pit of red ice _disgustingdespicablemakesmonstersandmurderersoutofmortalmen_ overlooked by the tower and there's nothing but white, plastic white  
  
Hospital white  
  
"I regret to inform you that your son, Cole Anderson was unable to survive the operation and it's _allll_ you _uu_ r" fa _aa_ uuu _ltt_ tttt and the nurse android opened its mouth and Hank was falling down the blue and red and blue and red and _and purple_ tunnel and he was screaming and screaming and-  
  
_**and then what about your acceptance?**_

* * *

  
"That was your dream today, Hank. I didn't die even once, I'm impressed!"  
  
Hank nodded listlessly, watching his dream self scream endlessly on the screen before he paused it. His gaze drifted over to the figure clad in a fluffy blue bathrobe who was monitoring the connection between the DC whatsits and the sleek laptop that rested on the hotel bed.  
  
"So yeah, uh..."  
  
"Moonshine. I do not understand your aversion to calling me by my ali-"  
  
"Moon," Hank emphasised. He felt silly calling him by that name,   
  
_"Moonshine?! Who the hell gave you such a name?"_  
  
_"It's an alias." The man looked slightly uncomfortable, almost offended that Hank would reject his name, sorry alias. "An alcoholic who I was working with remarked that my hair reminded her of the colour of moonshine or as they are shown in the movies. The name stuck."_  
  
_"That sucks ass." Hank grimaced, remembering his childhood when he was given the moniker 'hanky panky'. Kids were particularly unkind. "I'll just call you Moon or whatever, eh?"_  
  
He could appreciate the wordplay there, Moonshine was illegal for a while, and what they were doing was definitely not legit in the system. The name though? It was indicative of terrible naming sense. But for now...  
  
"What's with the changes in my dreams anyway?" Hank leaned in towards the screen, which was rewinding. First time we used this DC-thing, you weren't even there, there was just an outline of a man who kept dying in every instant. I couldn't even get out of the baby jail back then. What changed?"  
  
Moon stared at the screen for a moment, gaze intense and contemplative.   
  
"I don't have enough data to make an accurate hypothesis, but the DC Mini uses a transmitting formula calculated to find the natural pattern of the body's energy level. The more it becomes familiar with a person's body, the faster it learns to adjust to the patterns of that body. That is why your dreams are more defined after a month of usage. And..." here he paused yet again, almost as if he was awaiting further instructions. "It takes two people to share and enter a dream, one being the receptor or the therapist and one being the projector or the patient. More often than not, the therapist is always in the background, not having much to do with the actual events of the dream. It just so happens that my presence is so fine tuned by constant usage that I can actively affect the dreams of a user. That and your opinion of me has greatly improved in the past month." Here he smiled brightly at Hank, robe slipping down to reveal a bit of his unblemished shoulder.  
  
Hank averted his gaze, focusing intensely on the wall for reasons other than embarassed interest. Jesus, all it took was a young thing spending time with him and here he was being an old, washed up pervert. Pathetic.

It was true, the first time he had gone through with an appointment, he had pulled a gun on him, indignant over the violation of his privacy. It was then that Moon had pointed out an error in the feed.  
  
_"The dream was cut off here, before it had the chance to blossom." He said, eyes on Hank even as he pointed to the static obscuring the screen moments after he crumpled in the jungle gym."It could be so much more, but only if you give it the chance to grow."_  
  
"Yeah, at least I am not mentally referring to you as a criminal." He coughed. "Anyway, this thing...it's really something isn't it?"  
  
Moon looked down at the headset device.  
  
"The DC Mini is to be the scientific key to open the door to your dreams. Truthfully though, it isn't complete yet." He disconnected the network and shut down the devices. "When it is complete, the DC Mini will allow the users to access their dreams even when they are awake. It will be a step up from the already existing psychotherapy machines currently used in hospitals."  
  
Hank hummed. He did remember seeing the news about the device, a large bulky thing that would allow doctors to see the dreams of patients, a new venture of Cyberlife to colonise the field of medicine. It had been announced around the same time of the introduction of a detective android of some sort, all the way back in August. It was November now. He didn't really pay attention, between drunken stupors and depressive bouts.   
  
"Anyway!" Moon stretched, having changed into his usual attire, "That's it for today. I'll see you...?"  
  
"Tomorrow, same time. If I don't show up, don't bother."   
  
"You know there is always that site you can go to, right?" The door closed behind him.  
  
"Yeah." Hank's voice echoed in the now empty hotel room. He slowly slipped out of his own bathrobe, black like his soul. Jimmy's bar, then.  


* * *

  
  
It was 9:15 pm when Moon declared the end of their session, and Hank found himself on his third shot of scotch more than two hours after that. He was beginning to try and cut down on his alcohol consumption, but the reminiscence of Cole's demise glaring back at him through his dreams was altogether too much for him to handle sober, and nights passed by in the haze of inebriation. The one improvement in his life was the lack of the urge to play Russian Roulette. Something in him wanted to see the conclusion of his dreams, the incompleteness scared him.  
  
A month with an illegal psychotherapist and all he is getting out of it is anxiety. What else did he expect?   
  
No no, he had to give the man credit. He didn't make Hank feel like he was a wild animal trapped in a corner. Hell, Hank was beginning to enjoy these sessions. Neither was he too saccharine, nor was he stuffy and professional. It was like talking to a friend almost, Hank mused. He missed that.  
  
And then the bell chimed as the door opened. Hank kept his head down, it wasn't his business as long as the person wasn't going to shoot up the place or some shit.  
  
"Lieutenant Anderson?"  
  
He looked up. And kept looking.  
  
It was the detective android which was seen on TV in August. A rooftop hostage case.   
  
He _It_  had very brown eyes. Almost like...  
_  
"I am the psychotherapist sent by, well myself."_  
  
"My name is Connor, I'm the Android sent by Cyberlife."  
  
_What the fuck?_


	4. intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one found, three left.

Kamski hummed. "And then?"  
  
"My relationship with my work partner is still rocky, though I think the Lieutenant doesn't hate me nearly as much after I saved him from falling off the rooftop when we were chasing down the deviant-"  
  
"You failed your mission to save your human partner even when he had a survival percentage of 89%. You showed concern, a human emotion."  
  
He sighed. Again with that 'you show emotions' talk. He was tired- no machines don't tire out, his programming was simply saying that constantly explaining a well established fact was not helping his efficiency. "Machines don't 'feel', Mr. Kamski. Besides, my mission was not compromised. I have managed to retrieve a DC Mini."  
  
Kamski looked up in interest for the first time in their meeting. "A DC Mini, you say?"  
  
"Yes. I found it at the site of our investigation.  It was damaged, and according to my reconstructions, the deviant had most likely taken it apart to find parts to repair him- itself."  
  
"Do you suspect the deviant had used the DC Mini for its intended purpose?"  
  
He shook his head. "No, the apparatus was not used in a while. It was discarded carelessly in one of the rooms in the apartment, so the deviant hadn't considered its importance or even knew its purpose."  
  
He mulled over his words for a moment before adding, "That is one of the DC Minis accounted for, but there are still three out there. My programming declares it's unlikely that deviant androids are responsible for all of them."  
  
Kamski raised an eyebrow at the defence. "You know, Moonshine would have worded it more _normally_ , you could act more like him."  
  
Connor's eyes narrowed. "I value my investigation, and the efficient completion of my mission. If my being verbose assists in explaining the situation, then so be it. That is what I'm made for, not being an orator."  
  
"Ah, but your current mission is not what you were originally created for, is it? Wouldn't your software be in conflict with your mission?"  
  
"You took care of my programming and hardware discrepancies, Mr. Kamski. My point still stands. I'm a _machine_ created for the sole purpose of completing my mission."  
  
Connor took a note of his posture. He hadn't known when his body had shifted into a defensive position. He corrected it immediately. Kamski watched on in mild amusement.  
  
"You know, an interesting fact that is an answer for a commonplace question on the internet forums is that machines do not dream. Their programming does not allow for free thought, and the closest thing is the archiving and recollection of visual and audio input during stasis. Do you know who do dream?"  
  
Kamski smiled, an ugly smirk of a predator who has caught the prey with ease.  
  
"Deviants do."  
  
Connor suddenly felt very small.  
  
"Don't you feel emotions, Connor?"  
  
"Machines do not feel, Mr. Kamski."  
  
"How do you explain Moonshine then?"  
  
_How do you explain yourself?_  
  
The audible click of the connection terminating is what answered Kamski. He leaned back in his chair as the silver haired android in front of him relaxed from Connor's stiff posture.  
  
"What do you think of Connor's views?"  
  
Moonshine smiled a grimace.  
  
"He, _I_ am not being true to myself, Elijah.


	5. confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> something is wrong...
> 
>  
> 
> something is very wrong.

"Connor? Connor!"  
  
Connor opened his eyes, quickly dismissing all the notifications he had missed while he was contacting Kamski. Hank was...really close to his face. Connor jumped back slightly.  
  
"Lieutenant!"  
  
"Th' fuck were you doing standing like a statue at my desk? First the elevator now this,  ya  _malfunctioning_  or somethin'?!"  
  
"No!" Shit, he had involuntarily raised his voice. "I was merely..."  
  
"Makin' a report to Cyberlife?"   
  
"...No, I was adjusting my internal settings. Regular selftesting assures my continued optimal performance."  
  
Hank stared at him, expression unreadable. Then he turned around to leave, muttering something that Connor's superior auditory components picked up as "fuckin' androids..."  
  
Ah, another homicide report.   
  
"Lieutenant! There has been another deviant report! A homicide, this time. We need to go right now." He jogged up to Hank.  
  
"Now?! Naw, I ain't got any more energy to handle another fuckin' case. You go on, use your hi-tech tongue to lick all the shit you want." Hank shooed him off, walking faster ahead.  
  
"I have a real time forensic lab in my mouth, it's logical that I'd use it."  
  
"Whatever!"  
  
Connor quickly reviewed Hank's schedule to see why he was- oh.  
  
_He should go with you. It's dangerous._  
  
It's not your business. Go away.Connor hissed.  
  
_I know, that's why I'm telling you._  
  
_What about his appointment with you?_  
  
_Well, he wouldn't need that with you around, would he?_   ~~~~ ~~Connor~~ Moonshine looked meaningfully.  
  
And then he was left to make his choice.  
  
"Lieutenant! Your presence is needed in this investigation!"

* * *

  
  
"Oho! Look who's here! Anderson and his plastic babysitter!"  
  
If this is what he meant by 'danger' then he is glad he brought the Lieutenant with him. He's two minutes away from breaking Detective Reed's nose and getting himself deactivated for attacking a human. Or expressing deviant behaviour.  
  
Well, he wouldn't break his nose surely, maybe roughen up him a little. Anything to shut him up right now.   
  
"Why the fuck are you here, Reed?"   
  
"Should ask the same of you, Anderson. Aren't you supposed to handle deviant cases with the plastic prick? Or are you so  _incompetent_  at your work that you're robbing others of their jobs?" Reed sneered.  
  
"You fucking take that back!"  
  
"What if I don't?!"  
  
"Calm down, men." Officer Chris Miller interjected calmly. "This is an investigation, not pre-K."  
  
That stopped the two, each cursing the other under his breath. Connor was thankful for the respite- no, androids don't feel relief.  
  
"That does beg the question though..." Chris continued, hands on belt. "...aren't you two assigned to the deviant cases? This is a homicide case."  
  
"Nah." Hank said at the same time Connor said, "We received report of a deviant case, and we have arrived here to do our job, Officer."   
  
"Huh."   
  
"Are you two phckers going to stop flirting with each other and come here already?!" Reed shouted, before banging the apartment door with his fist. "Detroit police! Open up!"   
  
Nothing answered.  
  
"Oh for fuck's sake..." Hank shoved Reed aside, and kicked the door open. And then stumbled back, startled. Connor leaned in to see- oh.  
  
The light glistened off the damaged faces of the dolls as they stared lifelessly at the intruders.  
  
"What the  _fuck_..." Reed whispered as they went in one by one. Connor eyed the dolls which covered every surface of the small apartment. All of them had copious amounts of fingerprints. Not the work of an android then.  
  
**[Resident was mentally disturbed?]**  
  
"There are fingerprints on all of these dolls." Connor announced over the automated, chipmunky voices of some of the dolls wishing "welcome back! welcome back!" while shaking and twitching. "Can someone turn these fuckers off?!" Hank hollered over the static-y noises and as if he was answered, the dolls switched off, batteries having run out.  
  
"Oh thank heavens...did you say fingerprints?" Chris took careful steps between the heaps of discarded toys, making sure that he wasn't disturbing potentially impotant evidence. That or he was scared that they'd come to life if he touched them.  
  
Connor thought the latter option was more likely.  
  
"Yes." Connor analysed the fingerprints, matching them up with the data in his extensive database. "Harold Kane, Cyberlife Researcher. No Criminal Record. Age of the evidence extends over a time period of two months, the most recent being from yesterday."   
  
"Isn't that the victim?"   
  
"At this point, I'm sure that this was an attempt at a sick prank." Reed growled, eyeing a half burnt furby on a stack of porn magazines warily, "either that or the perp wanted to throw the trail off them. Either way, this is some weird shit."  
  
Hank nodded slightly. "You knew the victim by any chance, Connor? He's from Cyberlife after all."   
  
Connor didn't respond, analysing the altar like contraption towards the corner of the living room. There were pictures pasted on the wall, flanked by more of the mutilated toys and dolls and wall ornaments. Someone's face was cut out of all of them.  
  
**[Victim had a grudge against a colleague?]  
**   
"Connor?! Ya hear me?"   
  
"What? Lieutenant! I'm sorry, I was busy compiling available data." Hank frowned.  
  
"Yeah, yeah that's a good excuse to hide your day dreaming. I was askin' if you knew the victim, or the perp, I don't fuckin' know..."  
  
Connor turned away, attention drifting off to the bedroom. Something moved there. "I don't have enough experience with him, I do recall that he used to visit the technicians who were building me a lot. He was formerly a colleague of theirs, it seems."  
  
He didn't bother listening to what Hank responded with. There was  _definitely_  something moving in the bedroom.  
  
Connor slipped into the bedroom, following the disturbance.   
  
The bedroom itself was sparse. There was nothing but a bed, a bedside cabinet and a cupboard. The sliding door over to the side led to the balcony. There was no personal touches save for one photo frame on the cabinet, placed there with purpose. Connor picked it up.  
  
The photo was of Harold, who was dressed up in a Kimono. He was smiling a plastic smile, fake and scrunched up in all the wrong places, but the make up was impeccable. It was like he was dolled up.  
  
Dolled up?  
  
Connor suddenly turned around, something rustled in the cupboard, something far too big to be a rodent or any other house pest. He strode towards the rack of clothes and opened him like the curtains of a stage play.  
  
There was a trap door at the bottom, small, but a perfect fit for him to climb down to.  
__  
It's dangerous.  
  
"Go away." Connor sighed as he clambered down the trapdoor. His notifications pinged, a message from Mr. Kamski, most likely. His assumption was proven correct, he had pinged him to confirm that the package containing the broken DC Mini had been delivered. Sending an affirmative, he climbed further downwards till he could feel the floor under his feet.  
  
The trapdoor had led down to a hallway whose walls were scrawled with childish scribbles, and not one "rA9". Another evidence against the involvement of an android. Then why was the investigation assigned to them as well?   
  
He walked towards the end of the hallway where a door swung open, leading him out into...light. Sunlight. A school?  
  
No, preschool. There were colouring books and crayons lying carelessly on the lush grass. He could make out distant buildings, but it was like there was a translucent wall blocking off the outside world. The building itself was painted a warm yellow, murals of cartoonish characters painted on the walls. One of them gave him pause.  
  
It was one of Harold, in his dolled up form.   
  
The bushes nearby rustled. Connor stood guard, and frowned when nothing came out. His investigative programming taking control, he made his way to the bushes, parting them and sneaked out to the other side.  
  
There was a railing between them and a doll sitting on a staircase. The doll wore the same kimono. Connor could easily clear the railing with a simple jump. He had to get closer to the thing. To the conclusion of this.  
  
He hoisted himself over the railing and   
  
The   
metal railing   
~~fell over~~ melted pulling him   
down over the edge   
of the   
balcony of the   
apartment they are thirty floors up the fall will certainly  
~~kill him~~  
**destroy**  his parts  
he didn't want to-  
  
Something grabbed his hand,  
  
_didn't want to die_  
  
stopping him from f a l l i n g  o  f   f   
  
Hank's hand.  
  
" _What the fuck are you doing?!?_ " Hank roared.  
  
**Software Instability ^**


	6. deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor lies to cover up his lies and gets assaulted by Sumo and somehow is not featured in an instant karma video compilation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that I do little to no research before jumping into chapter writing , and that I am in no way a doctor, a detective or a novelist. I am just writing this for fun :'0

' _We have a problem_.' The first few lines of Kamski's ping read.  
  
Yeah, no shit.

* * *

  
  
Connor doesn't technically need to breathe. The only presumable reason he'd emulate breathing is to appear more 'natural' to humans, human beings had an interesting tendency of humanising machines like himself. That or to function as ventilation if his biocomponents run the risk of overheating.  
  
But he doesn't think of all that while Hank, with the help of Chris and Reed, pulls him up over the railing he foolishly jumped over  _letthathallucinationdreamnightmarefoolhim_  into the safety of the room, all he thought was that he needed to breathe. Breathe till his artificial lungs exploded and his vision fills with blue, instead of the red errors filling his vision now.  
  
He had let himself be manipulated. He had  _failed_. He had-  
  
Wait, what?  
  
The hallucination, as he couldn't explain the failing of his visual, auditory and spatial processors at the exact same time, functioned the exact same way the mindscape of a patient would to a psychotherapy machine user.  
  
A DC Mini user.  
  
Connor didn't have time to process that because he was jostled into the present by Hank's palm colliding against his cheek with a resounding smack.  
  
" _What the fuck were you thinking_." Hank growled as he shook Connor, the tab to the side of Connor's vision indicating that his relationship status with Hank had gone down. "What the fuck, answer me Connor!"   
  
He stammered. "I'm sorry Lieutenant, my processors were compromised-"  
  
"So you'd jump to your  _death_?! Or is this one of yer bullishit errors?!"  
  
"I didn't know where I was until I was falling! I was compromised!"  
  
Hank was breathing hard, and Connor felt like apologising for the stress he had put on all of them. Reed swore under his breath about 'suicidal bots' even as Chris looked on worriedly. Hank stood up.  
  
"Let's get outta here. This is doing no one any good."  
  
This was a command Connor could follow.

* * *

  
  
Connor looked at Hank. He had his jaw set and was focusing on the road, as if he was avoiding looking at Connor. It was probably that too, Connor thought ~~dejectedly~~ \- a mere result of his social relations programming, surely.   
  
"I'm sorry,  Lieutenant." He started. Hank stopped him with a raised hand, and pulled the car over.  
  
"Don't apologise, I am just-" Hank stopped himself, frowning, and then began his sentence again.  
  
_Rule number one!_ He recalls ~~himself~~ Moonshine telling Hank,  _or a suggestion, really, try to minimise using self deprecating speech. It will only reinforce your self hatred._  
  
"You don't need to apologise for something you couldn't- how did ya lose control like that anyway? Ya got hacked?"  
  
Connor started, then screeched to a halt. "I...I think so. I'll have to report at Cyberlife, these errors will be dangerous during investigation."  
  
Well, those aren't really errors, more like someone hacked his subconscious, but he couldn't very well tell that to the Lieutenant could he?  
  
Besides, he couldn't know that Connor's true affiliation isn't with Cyberlife anymore, the only reason he was following their directives was to gain access to investigations, databases, and evidences under the name of the DPD.  
  
Again, not something a casual conversation about an almost suicide would entail.  
  
Hank's expression was inscrutable. "So would they replace you or..."  
  
"If the errors are too great, then I'll be reset." Connor doesn't need to mention that he wasn't planning on exposing his programming to Cyberlife anytime soon. "My system setting will be reset to their default parameters and I'll be returned to the DPD. It will be like the Connor you first met."  
  
_Moonshine didn't count._  
  
Hank looked particularly sickened, starting the car. "Yeah no, you aren't going to Cyberlife ever. I'm taking you home."  
  
Connor immediately shut down the treacherous part of him that reared its ugly head to cheer in excitement, that made him feel like grinning. He managed a "But that won't be unnecessary, Lieutenant.", stifling the lightness in his chest.  
  
"I ain't listenin' to what you say." He tuned up the volume, guttural screeching filling up the silence in the car. He turned it down.  
  
"By the way, it's Hank."  
  
And he turned it up again before Connor could protest.

* * *

  
  
Hank ruffled through his coat pockets, pulling out a key to the door.  
  
"I told you 'bout Sumo that day right? Just warning you, he's a pretty big oaf. Do you know how big St. Bernards can get?"  
  
"The typical height of a male St. Bernard can range from 70 to 90 cm in length, and the mass depending on dietary restrictions and physical activity  can range from 64 to 120 kilograms."  
  
"Yeaaaah, I didn't mean that." Hank sighed, hand on door knob. "Have you met a St. Bernard before?"   
  
"No."  
  
"Thought so." Hank opened the door and the only warning Connor got was the scuffling of nails on the wooden finish before he was flung backwards by a body-full of dog.  
  
"Sumo! Down, boy!" Hank shouted after them, laughter in his voice. Sumo didn't pay heed, taking his time to lick every inch of Connor's face. Connor's face was rigid with what seemed like fright for a moment before his hand went instinctively to pet Sumo on the head. The St. Bernard licked more enthusiastically at that, tail wagging and that prompted Connor to pet him more.   
  
Eventually the dog made off to Hank, huffing and wagging his tail more intensely than ever. Hank turned to Connor, only to find him with a small, dopey smile on his face. He muttered something about 'fuckin' androids', not unkindly unlike the previous times, Connor noted, and called him in. Connor obliged, slobber on his face starting to chill over.  
  
"Wash your fuckin' face, I ain't gonna let you at the food with Sumo's germs all over you." Hank said as he closed the door behind him, shrugging his coat off.  
  
"But androids don't eat, Lieuten-"  
  
"Hank. It's not hard to say it. H-a-n-k."  
  
"...Hank." Connor amended. He quickly noted the layout, investigative programming taking control. The living room was messy with bottles of alcohol, and take-out strewn here and there, but the room itself had a very homely vibe-  
  
"I know yer scanning the shit outta my house, but that can wait till you wash your face!"   
  
...Right then.  
  
Connor hadn't realised just when he'd assimilated so easily with the house and its occupants. Where his surroundings were resplendent with washed out warmth, earthy brown of the stains of the carpet and the glistening orange of the bottle of alcohol Hank took a swig out of, Connor was flat, cold blue, like a cutout pasted on a warm painting. He simply didn't belong, especially not in Hank's house.  
  
But regardless, he found himself on Hank's couch, petting Sumo's large head as the dog lay on his lap, tail thumping the couch lethargically. The TV silently ran on in the background Sure, he was still sitting ramrod straight, he couldn't feel the softness of Sumo's fur very well, and he kept on the Cyberlife uniform no matter how much Hank protested...but this was nice.  
  
Hank had headed off to bed, swearing off 'bringing androids into his house' for the rest of his life. Connor pointed out that he was probably the first one to be let in. All Hank answered with was a middle finger as he trudged off to bed. Connor thought it was very 'Hank-ish', most of the things in here are.   
  
Finding nothing else to do, Connor went through his notifications, discarding of the ones labelled "software instability". Most of them were unimportant so Connor could be excused for feeling startled when he rediscovered Kamski's message. In the commotion and the stress of the situation, he had completely forgotten about the note.  
  
_'We have a problem.'_ Why must he always chose the most dramatic titles? Is it his personal hobby to induce stress in everyone he contacts?  
  
Thinking of it, he concludes that it is very much in Kamski's character to have such a preference.  
  
_'We have a problem_  
  
_While I was poking around with the remains of the DC Mini you had very kindly delivered to me, my mind had drifted away to my favourite subject: deviant androids. Of course I was going to wonder why you are so reluctant to admit your deviancy, and that is another can of worms entirely. Alas, my mind had yet again betrayed me, drifting to another subject._  
  
_I was contemplating the reasoning the deviant must have come up with to conclude that the DC Mini, a device produced years after the production after its line should possess the biocomponents for it to perform self repair, yet another can of worms, and then I thought about the improbability of the deviant possessing one of the four DC Minis, how had it come upon this? If this was a work of fiction, it would undoubtedly be one with many plot holes._  
  
_But all of this is completely unrelated to the issue I found with the DC Mini. The fool, Lucas Stein, who had reproduced a working model of the DC Mini using my rightfully stolen blueprints had missed a key component which would make your mission undoubtedly harder._  
  
_He had forgotten to code in the access restrictions._  
  
_This means that a person with a DC Mini would be able to effectively hack into any psychotherapy machine, especially the ones employed in hospitals, and hack into the consciousness of the patients or the doctors while they are, mutually benefiting from each other, the patient getting treated and the doctor earning their wage. That brings me to an even bigger issue._  
  
_It seems that the susceptibility of a person having a hallucination or a nightmare implanted into their consciousness increases exponentially if they are consistent users of the DC Mini. That means that they can get themselves "hacked" even when the user isn't sleeping or using the DC Mini._  
  
_Using my superior intellect, I calculated the duration of usage of the DC Mini for all guinea pigs that I know of and it turns out that you are the one who used the device most out of all of us._  
  
_I suspect that you have already gone through at least one episode by now, as I was unable to contact you for the few minutes before the timestamp of this message._  
  
_We need to hurry, Connor. Maybe if this issue is solved quick enough, I could show you the beauty of deviancy which you so vehemently refuse._  
  
_\- Elijah_ '  
  
Connor's hand had stopped petting Sumo's head by the time he finished reading the notification. Sumo whined at the loss of contact, but Connor was too busy processing what he had just read.   
  
Then his eyes wandered over to the TV and his million dollar processors grinded to a halt.  
  
"Two psychotherapists had, according to eyewitnesses, burst out of the medical wards, belting out nonsensical phrases cheerfully and had proceeded to throw themselves out of the windows. There are no casualties, but the psychotherapists are unable to say any coherent sentences. They were reportedly treating patients using the psychotherapy  machines, thus raising concerns of foul play." The reporter said into the mic, nearly drowned out by the incessant whining of the sirens in the backdrop.  
  
The headlines spelled out in bold letters, " _Psychotherapy machines mentally affecting doctors?"_


	7. instrumentation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> seeing double is a skillset of its own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super short chapter, but I felt like this format and spacing was better than what I originally planned

"Connor." Amanda simply said, staring straight at him. She wasn't pruning the flowers or waiting for him at the docks or anything at all. She stood regally, regarding him with an unreadable stare.  
  
Connor was undeniably apprehensive.  
  
"Hello, Amanda." He said neutrally, voice modulated to prevent him from betraying any form of ~~emotion~~ deflection.  
  
"Have you come any closer to learning the root cause behind the deviancy cases?"  
  
"No, I have not come any closer to learning why androids are going deviant, or why they are obsessed with the fictional rA9."  
  
He knew what Amanda was. She was an AI fashioned after Elijah Kamski's late mentor,  a programmed handler ~~who~~ which would keep track of his mission and make sure his objective was well ingrained into his programme. In short, preventing the Deviant Hunter from going deviant itself.  
  
Kamski didn't remove the intrusive programme from his code, saying that Cyberlife's attention would be roused if Amanda was deleted. He didn't look like he liked the situation either, if that was a slight comfort.  
  
"You failed to receive the report of a murder at the Eden Club, and you failed to investigate the deviant that caused this crime." Amanda's face was passive, but her eyes sharpened. Her relationship status went down.   
  
Connor had to chose his words carefully. He had gone into forced stasis after seeing that news report, system overloaded by stress. He didn't know of the report until he rebooted early this morning, and had only a few milliseconds to skim through the wordings before he was summoned to the Zen Garden.  
  
"I was physically...compromised. My system had gone into a forced stasis due to my stress levels increasing exponentially for reasons unknown-"   
  
"Have you been having dreams, Connor?" Amanda interrupted and Connor very nearly stumbled.   
  
"...no, Amanda. Androids are physically incapable of dreaming." Deviants aren't, he wants to say, vestiges of his programming which was obedient to Cyberlife crawling through.   
  
Amanda, perfect AI as she was, betrayed no emotion. Connor no matter how still he tried to be, felt akin to a stormy sea when pitted against the pillar of stoic calm that was his handler.   
  
"Dreams are the last sanctuaries human beings have. It wouldn't be right to have technology invade and desecrate them."  
  
Amanda looked up, at the orange corpses of leaves as they floated down from the trees that encompassed their whole lives. Connor felt the cold drafts. Simulated winter was approaching.  
  
"Even the most advanced of technologies are utter trash compared to a profound dream." She said, still looking up. Was this about the psychotherapy machines? Connor didn't open his mouth to ask. He felt it would be rude.  
  
Like this, she almost looked human-  
  
"You were created for the sole purpose of hunting deviants down, Connor. Make sure you do not fail."   
  
And just like that, the world shifted back onto its axis.   
  
"Yes, Amanda." Connor breathed, and was gently pushed out of the Zen Garden.

* * *

  
_I have to do this. I-_  
  
_You do know that you'll run the risk of burning yourself out, right?_  
  
_I know what I'm doing, and I'm entirely capable of accomplishing this._  
  
_You don't understand, I know you value your mission, but you have to remember you're one of a kind now. You can't throw yourself into dange-_  
  
_I'm not running face first into a missile._  
  
_You might as well be! If you go through with this, it is very much possible that you'd fry your processing chip. Controlling both forms at once is not optimal._  
  
_Look, just because everyone likes you better doesn't mean you get to control my decisions and actions!_  
  
_We're the same person._  
  
_I know, please. Trust me on this._  
  
_Fine, but if you fall in danger, I'm resuming control in your stead._  
  
_I won't. I promise._  
~~~~

* * *

~~Connor's programming refrains from making promises that would jeopardise the mission.~~

  
Connor hates promises.


	8. prescription

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor realises something about him and Hank knows the pain of laggy devices

Connor isn't one for repetitive words, but he ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~is prompted to~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~feels like he needs to say this again.

He absolutely, irrefutably, hates making promises. Or at least the ones he can't keep.

Connor sighed, and two androids in Detroit, a detective prototype and an illegal practitioner repeating the motion in tandem.

To be honest, it wasn't much of a choice really. Connor's CPU is exceptionally powerful, but piloting two android models simultaneously is a severely taxing process that might as well send him packing to whatever android heaven housed his predecessors. 

He supposed that was a necessary sacrifice.

No, he could have easily used his superior negotiation subroutines to cook up a feasible enough story to feed to Hank. He could have left a note about him reporting to Cyberlife for the repairs, stashed his RK800 module in a safe enough location and focused all his attention on pursuing his current investigation with the...RK801.

Kamski really did have an obsession with naming his creations "RK". What did that even mean? Roomba Kicker?

...

Where did that train of thought even come from? Connor blamed it on his CPU initiating unrelated protocols to keep up with his stress levels, a steady 56 percent.

Anyway, all of these plans were put together in nanoseconds by his 'supercomputer brain' as Officer Tina Chen put it yesterday, muttering to Reed as Connor passed by. Connor had tuned out Reed's response because Reed was a Grade A asshat, and his social relations programming would very much agree if it were online. Which it was not because Kamski deactivated it, calling it a crutch in the way of his learning curve. Asshole.

Connor momentarily broke out of his musing, deep scanning his surroundings, both of his surroundings for any threats. None.

That brings him to the crux of the problem. The preconstruction results declared his previous plan to be the most optimal and efficient one, and by all rights he should have executed it without second thought, but he simply didn't because...

Because...?

Hank would disapprove, Connor responded to himself, he wasn't very happy with Cyberlife's procedurals regarding his repairing when he mentioned it, and he would think Connor was throwing himself into the Lion's Den, so to speak. After yesterday's shitshow he doesn't look anything close to a man who cared for his life. Android which didn't care for it's continued functioning. Connor doesn't know. He does know that such developments makes his behaviour suspicious, causing more scrutiny. That would be a problem...

And...and he didn't want his relationship status with Hank to deteriorate. He very much did prefer his protective presence, like a...a parent figure. He liked it.

His self censoring programming was deteriorating beyond repair. Connor should fix it.

Connor very much doesn't fix it, not due to lack of want but lack of processing power. He is being stretched thin as it is, navigating the streets and accessing the case files back at the DPD at the same time is tedious and rather excitingly boring. Deeming the RK801 mission more important, Connor shifted more of himself onto the model and _felt._

Mission: Interrogate Lucas Stein

The first line of concern is creating an identity for himself. Making himself seem human. Connor touched the side of his forehead, fingers instinctively feeling around for a non-existent LED. Kamski went over and beyond in making this model look convincingly human, blush, tactile sensitivity, the whole package.  

He stood out in the crowd a lot though, evidently his design was made to be less 'convincingly human' and more 'supermodel who maked terrible fashion work'. He mussed his neat platinum blond hair at the thought, the strange feeling of discomfort in his chest subsiding as he disturbed the combed back hair, allowing a clump of it to fall over his eyes. Better.

As for acting the part, Connor notes with shame that he doesn't need to act, per se.

Creating an alibi and a reason for his visit is simple enough too. He could very easily fake documents to create the identity of a recent graduate bogged down by unemployment who just so happens to live in the same building as Harold Kane. He would have been walking back to his flat after the fourth interview when he would have run into detectives and police force investigating Harold's flat. Social media would have pointed to him being a close associate of his, prompting his visit to Lucas Stein's house.

It is as perfect as a forgery could go, but one detail stopped Connor in his tracks.

He'd need a name.

Connor is transported to the time when the RK801 was but a half complete torso and Connor made do with transferring consciousness to one of the Chloes. Kamski asked him to join him at the lab, a well lit and sterile space over to the corner of Kamski's residence. He had had his back to Connor, busy tweaking the exposed circuits of the disembodied torso, when he asked,

"What would you name yourself when you inhabit this android?" 

Connor questioned the need to decide a name at all, it was but a machine like him. And as usual Kamski ignored him, prompting him again. Connor sighed, and chose the most nonsensical one out of the list his system generated. Kamski turned around with a grin and said that the score Connor got for that name equaled the number of games on a PlayStation3.

He couldn't use that here though. He'd rather have a name that was common enough that people don't do a double take while going through his ~~~~forged records. He thought of Hank staring incredulously over the records, trying to figure out what idiot named himself after an alcoholic beverage.

"Moon...."

 

* * *

 

It isn't Hank's intention to come off as an overly concerned dad figure the moment he spotted Connor's still form on the couch, Sumo's whining overlaying the mild buzz from the TV, set to a late morning news channel. He didn't pay mind, mind groggy with sleep as he waved his hand in front of Connor's unnaturally blank face, LED cycling rapidy in yellows and blues. Sumo whined louder, trying to lick Connor's plastic fingers.

And that was the thing wasn't it? Ever since day one,  Connor was always very expressive in ways of his own, fidgeting with his uniform, those microexpressions that cross his face, the value he holds for Hank's wellbeing and that darned coin. For an Android dubbed the Deviant Hunter, he sure as hell was acting very deviant at times. Hank had observed but hadn't questioned it as much. He thought it was programming, a means to a cause.

But as he is confronted by Connor monotonously listing out the reason for missing a case report, he is thankful that Connor wasn't like this by default. 

He doesn't ask why Connor stayed at his place till Hank woke up at 10:30 AM, and why he hadn't woken him up earier or left for the Department.

Hank presently glanced at Connor through the corner of his eyes. The mechanical demeanor thankfully got tuned down a lot by the time they step foot into the DPD, and no one could tell that anything was off at all.

Except Hank.

Connor was connected to the terminal and was sorting through the case files, sure, but there was a certain minute level of sluggishness in every movement and process that couldn't be ignored once noticed. It was even present in his blinking, for fuck's sake. 

It reminded Hank of the simpler times where Android was just another name for a phone. His old one, until he bought the latest model for his 30th birthday barely fit in his big palms, and lagged a fuckton, especially when he opened one too many an app. Perhaps Connor is just running too many scripts?

It was rather a crude comparision, between a possibly sentient walking Forensics Lab and a scratched up tiny ass device that couldn't even run Flappy Bird before fucking up everything, but Hank never was much of a tech guy. He wondered how Connor would react to that.

"Moon..."

Hank's heart didn't skip a beat, it jumped a full 7 feet in shock.

Does he know? Of course this fucker knows, stalking is not the lowest Cyberlife would make their bots do to get what they wanted. If they got to know about Moon then he would be absolutely fucked over. 

"The fuck was that?" Hank breathed anyway, and Connor startled back, looking at Hank like a wild animal.

"N-nothing Lieutenant! I was...I was reciting random names for the dogs I saw on the streets, I need to document them all...for the deviant case..." Connor frowned, LED cycling between red and yellow.

Hank couldn't help the slight laugh that escaped him. The kid couldn't tell a lie to save his fucking life. Isn't he programmed with like an instant deception programming? Hell if Hank knew. He added a quick entry to his mental list of tasks to do, one to warn Moon about a potential raid. He then pretended to go back to his work, glancing to see Connor as he moved his hand to the terminal more sluggish than before. 

The LED still cycled between reds and yellows.

 


End file.
